Hunter

The house was a mistake. I knew that the second I signed the damn papers. Or, well, Houston signed the papers.

Now here I am, mowing the lawn like some sad suburban dad. What the hell am I doing?

I must look like some kind of joke. A hitman turned lawn care professional. The thought makes me want to laugh and hurl the mower into the street at the same time.

I didn't just move into any house, though. I had to pick the one two doors down from hers.

I tell myself it's for surveillance. You keep your enemies—or in this case, your obsessions—close. But I know that's bullshit. I wanted to be near her. To see her every day, even if it's just a glimpse of her through the window.

It's reckless. Dangerous. I feel like I've been repeating those words a lot lately.

As I finish the lawn, I glance toward her house.

Her yard is a mess, grass grown out of control. A few weeds have taken up residence in the flowerbeds along the front porch.

Against my better judgment, I shut off the mower and walk up her driveway before I can stop myself. This is a terrible idea. I told myself that I would keep my distance.

Before I can knock, the door swings open.

She's standing there, looking surprised and—Jesus Christ—beautiful. She's got her hair up, loose curls escaping to frame her face. A simple dress hugs her curves just right. Her lips part as she notices me, eyes wide with curiosity.

"Houston?" she blinks. "What are you doing here?"

Was she expecting someone else?

"Your lawn," I say, nodding at it like an idiot. "It's a jungle out here. Thought I'd see if you needed some help."

She blinks again, then laughs, a soft sound that does things to me it shouldn't. "You want to mow my lawn?".

I shrug, trying to play it casual. "What are neighbors for, right? Figured I'd lend a hand."

She bites her lip, thinking it over. "I... well, actually, my mower broke a couple of months ago. I've been too busy to get it fixed."

"Tell you what," I say, shoving my hands in my pockets to keep from fidgeting. "I can mow it for you, no charge. And I'll take a look at your mower, see if I can get it running."

Now, I'm not just a lawn care professional. I'm a damn mechanic.

She gives me a long look, somewhere between amused and suspicious. Finally, she sighs and steps aside. "If you really want to, fine. But I have to head out soon."

My stomach twists at that. Head out? Where? With who?

My jaw tightens. I keep my expression neutral. "No worries. I'll be quick."

She leads me to the garage, and I do my best not to stare at the way her dress sways as she walks. She opens the garage door and points to a dusty, neglected mower shoved against the wall. "There it is. If you can figure it out, you're a genius."

I eye the machine, trying to look like I have a clue what the hell I'm doing.

Spoiler: I don't.

But it's an excuse to stay close to her, to get a peek into her life. "I'll see what I can do," I say, crouching down and fiddling with a few parts, buying myself time. I pick up a nearby wrench, unsure of what I will actually do with it.

She lingers for a moment, then steps toward the door. "Okay, well... good luck. I really have to go."

"Big plans?" I ask, trying to sound casual as I turn a bolt on the mower, pretending I know what the hell it does.

"Yeah, actually." She tucks a loose curl behind her ear, looking almost... nervous? "I've got a date."

My grip on the wrench tightens.

A date.

Of course.

I clench my jaw, forcing myself to nod. "Have fun," I grit out the words, though they taste like ash on my tongue.

Do not follow her, Hunter. You will not follow her.

"Thanks." She flashes me a small smile before turning to her car. "If you can't fix it, don't worry about it. I'll figure something out later."

With that, she climbs into her car, backs out of the driveway, and I'm left alone in her garage, staring at the mower.

A date. With who? That guy I saw her with, if I had to guess.

I grit my teeth, trying to push down the surge of jealousy. I should leave. Mow her lawn and get the hell out of here.

But I can't. Not yet.

I give up on the lawn mower for the time being and settle on getting her lawn finished. Which I do in record time.

When I'm done, I turn my attention back to the broken machine in her garage. I crouch down, twisting bolts and fiddling with knobs, knowing damn well I have no clue how to fix this thing. Fixing a lawnmower falls outside my skill set.

But my eyes keep drifting to the door. The one cracked open. Leading into her house.

Unlocked. Careless. Inviting.

I know I shouldn't. I know I should just leave, but I can't stop looking at that damn door. It really should not be left unlocked and open like that.

I try to focus on the mower, turning a piece of metal in my hand. But my eyes keep drifting back to that door. What if she's hiding something? What if her father left clues behind, evidence of the type of men he was tangled up with? Hell, maybe she's got documents that tie into my targets. It's a stretch, but it's enough to give me an excuse.

You're lying to yourself, Hunter. This has nothing to do with your job.

I curse under my breath, standing up and dropping the wrench. I know I shouldn't, but my feet are moving before I can talk myself out of it. Walking over to the door, I press my hand against it, pushing it open just enough to peer inside. The house is dark, quiet.

I'm going to regret this.

Before I can change my mind, I step inside, closing the garage door behind me. My heart pounds in my chest, a rush of adrenaline mixed with... something else.

Guilt? Shame? No, it's not that. It's need. I need to know more about her. I need to see what kind of life she's living.

I find myself in a small kitchen. It's clean and tidy. Not a dish out of place.

The scent of her lingers in the air. It's floral, soft, and entirely too tempting. I inhale hungrily, letting it fill my lungs. It's like a drug, a hit I didn't know I was craving until now.

Get a grip. You're here for a reason.

I force myself to move, stepping into the hallway. My eyes skim over the walls, taking in the photos she has framed. Most of them are photos of her. And there's one of her and a blonde girl. Not the guy, though. No, he's nowhere to be found in these frames.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek. Maybe they're not serious. Maybe he's just some fling. But either way, I'll have to dig into his background.

For her safety, of course.

The hallway leads me to her bedroom. I hesitate, fingers brushing against the doorframe. It's intimate, crossing another line, but I step inside anyway.

The bed is made, a plush comforter spread out, pillows fluffed. I let my hand graze the fabric as I walk past, feeling the softness beneath my fingertips. I can't help but wonder if it smells like her, if it carries that same floral scent that lingers in the air around me.

You need to leave. Now.

But I don't. Not yet.

I stare at her bed like it's an altar. I'm so close to doing something I'll regret. Going through her drawers, invading her privacy. It would be easy. Too easy.

I back away, pulse pounding, throat tight. Walk out before I cross a line I can't come back from.

***

Cutter's a slippery bastard. He's been slinking around for hours, meeting men in back alleys like they're trading secrets over cocktails. Maybe they are. Each interaction is so cloak-and-dagger it makes my teeth ache.

From behind a dumpster, I watch the alley. The air reeks of exhaust and wet asphalt, a far cry from the sanitized corridors of corporate offices Cutter usually haunts. He's off-grid tonight. I know why.

Cromwell.

The name leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

Senator Robert Cromwell.

Another piece of shit hiding behind a suit and a smile, his rap sheet uglier than most. What we've dug up on him is bad. What we haven't? Worse.

Atlas says Cutter's just the appetizer. Cromwell is the fucking main course.

These bastards are the exact type of men I specialize in taking down, the kind that think they're untouchable. And Cutter, with his slicked-back hair and expensive suits, is about to find out otherwise.

Footsteps echo against the brick walls of the alleyway. I press further into the shadows.

Cutter's voice drifts through the dark. "You're late."

Cromwell huffs. "Had to deal with some distractions."

Distractions. Right. More like he had to clean up after whatever shady business he was involved in today.

A car passes. I use the noise to move closer, slipping behind the dumpster just feet from where they talk.

"You've got the details for the game?" Cromwell asks, voice low and oily, like he's trying too hard to play it cool.

"Everything's in place," Cutter replies. "The poker room's been reserved, and I've got the list of players finalized. High rollers only, you know the drill."

"And the girls?"

I tense, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. So this is what they're planning. Not just poker. Never just poker. My grip on the corner of the dumpster tightens, the cold metal biting into my fingers.

Cutter laughs, a sound that crawls under my skin. "Got a fresh batch. Pretty and desperate. They'll keep your people happy."

Cromwell sounds pleased. "They'll be compliant?"

"Always," Cutter purrs. "I take care of my clients."

I clench my jaw, resisting the urge to launch myself out of this alley and break every bone in Cutter's smug face. But I stay rooted, waiting, listening. There's more to this. There always is.

Cromwell makes a noise that could be approval or annoyance; with men like him, it's hard to tell the difference. "The game needs to go off without a hitch. Too much scrutiny lately."

"Security's locked. No leaks," Cutter replies. "Just faces we trust."

I let the words soak in, committing every detail to memory. An exclusive poker game. Girls involved. High rollers. This is bigger than Cutter, and Cromwell's at the center.

Cutter leans in. "Remember, Senator. You're our guest of honor. You keep the cops off my back, I keep the entertainment flowing."

Cromwell chuckles, slimy and sure. "You deliver, I cover you. Simple as that."

Fucking corrupt bastard.

My teeth grind together, anger bubbling up like a volcano threatening to erupt. I take a slow, measured breath, forcing it back down.

Cutter pulls away, his tone shifting back to business. "The game's set for tomorrow night. Usual place. Make sure you're ready to play."

"Always am," Cromwell replies, his voice fading as they walk away.

I hold my breath, listening to the echo of their footsteps retreating down the alley until they blend into the city's background noise. When I'm sure they're gone, I step out from behind the dumpster, muscles coiled tight.

Tomorrow night. A poker game, with high-profile players and a new selection of girls.

Cutter's not just scum. He's the worst kind. The kind who profits off other people's misery. And Cromwell? He's the puppet master, pulling strings from his cushy seat in the Senate.

Atlas was right. Cutter's only the beginning. But I need to play this smart. If I make a move too soon, I'll spook them, and they'll go underground. I need to know more about this game, about the girls. I need to be there, see the players, find out who's involved.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, snapping me out of my thoughts. I pull it out and glance at the screen. Atlas.

He knows I'm out tonight. He knows not to call. If he had been thirty seconds earlier, he could have gotten me caught.

"Yeah?" I answer, keeping my voice low.

"What's the situation?" Atlas's voice is all business, sharp and to the point.

"Cutter's setting up a poker game.High rollers. Fresh girls. Cromwell's the guest of honor."

There's a pause on the other end, and I can practically hear the wheels turning in Atlas's head. "Interesting. And Cromwell's comfortable being involved?"

"More than comfortable," I reply, stepping out of the alley and blending into the sidewalk crowd. "He's helping Cutter keep the cops off his back in exchange for entertainment."

Atlas lets out a low whistle. "Bastards are more tangled than we thought. I want you at that game tomorrow night. Get in, get intel, and find out who the players are. We're going to take them all down, but we need to know exactly what we're dealing with."

"I'm already on it," I say, stepping onto the sidewalk, slipping into the crowd. "I'll blend in. Get what we need."

"Good," Atlas says, his tone dropping a notch. "And Hunter? Watch yourself. These guys play dirty."

"I know," I mutter, ending the call.

I don't need the reminder. This isn't my first rodeo.

I should start thinking strategy, logistics, back doors.

Instead, I think of her.

Not because she's part of this. She isn't.

But because everything in my life is starting to bend around Rosalina. Even this.

I moved two doors down for proximity. For control. But she's the one in control now, without knowing it. And if any of this filth ever touched her world, even by accident?

I wouldn't just burn it down.

I'd salt the fucking earth.